


Anything in Season OR The Squire and the Saviour

by NothingToDoWithMe



Series: Anything [4]
Category: The Goodies (TV), The Goodies RPF
Genre: Animal Abuse, BDSM Scene, Bodice-Ripper, F/M, Georgian Period, Grief/Mourning, Paganism, Parody, Period-Typical Sexism, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 13:20:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19357831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NothingToDoWithMe/pseuds/NothingToDoWithMe
Summary: Inspired by Bill's violent (but hilarious) performance in 'Black and White Beauty', Miss K just had to put down her Georgette Heyer and get her typewriter out. She was surprised at quite what was unleashed from the dark recesses of her imagination!





	Anything in Season OR The Squire and the Saviour

Turning the corner of Hazel Lane, Mrs Barratt descried a small, white figure flitting over the Glebe Farm lawns. At last, a new owner, and seemingly with a small child! Clutching her Holy Bible, the young woman smiled hopefully. Might there also be children of an age to require a governess? Sadly, dressmaking was not bringing in that comfortable income for which she had, perhaps overconfidently, hoped; in plain fact, she was in grave danger of losing the roof over her head next quarter day. She would pay a call at the house to-morrow – using the servants’ entrance, of course, she recalled with a pang – to introduce herself. Evidently the family was not fully settled in or they would, naturally, have attended to-day’s act of worship.

The lane was admittedly the longer route back from church but by far the more picturesque. Besides, she had wished, by slipping out so rapidly and vanishing into the green road, to avoid the tiresome Mr Brooke, forever pressing his unwelcome suit. That stout gentleman was unlikely to risk his customary, ill-advisedly light Sunday footwear to the honest country mud, preferring the high street where he could peep through the bullseye at the confectioner’s display – a shameless habit on the Lord’s Day. The fluting of throstle and blackbird in this sylvan sanctum were far more uplifting to the feminine heart than would have been the old coot’s solemn, condescending tones.

Her steps contentedly confining themselves to the twists and turns of the ancient way, Sarah came as usual to approach the Glebe stables. At this juncture, to her dismay, the avian harmony was abruptly drowned out by a harsher concerto. A horse was whinnying in high distress, its hooves scraping on the cobbles. As though this were not terrifying enough, the sound was virtually drowned out by a harsh, male voice bellowing the most shocking abuse.

Sarah hesitated for a moment at the entrance to the yard. Then a whip was heard to lash out. Fearless, she immediately knew her duty. Running forward, she exclaimed, “Stop that, this instant!”

A slight, dishevelled whirling dervish of a man – one could not, in all honesty, term him a gentleman, despite his costly black riding boots and cream habit, slowly lowered his whip hand and turned to locate the invading critic. He took in her declamatory attitude with an audible sneer, placing a solid, disdainful hand upon his hip. A well-cut black riding jacket, having been removed from his person for the better exercise of his temper, hung upon the open door of a tack room.

“And why should I do _that,_ in the d----l’s name?”

Indeed; however he might style himself, this was no gentleman, judging by his readiness to blaspheme in front of a lady, and on a Sunday, to boot! He was not to know that she had heard far worse in her rather interesting history. Nothing dismayed, Sarah stood firm.

“Because she is one of God’s innocent, dumb creatures, of course! She can have done nothing, surely, to deserve of such despicable cruelty?”

The object of her fury swept the shockingly unkempt chestnut hair from his eyes, enabling him to look the woman up and down in a scornful and offensively lascivious manner whilst he drew breath.

“Not that it is _anybody’s_ business but my own, but this stupid animal needs reminding of her station,” he spat. “The owner will wholeheartedly approve, I assure you. What is more, she may have damaged my best stallion whilst in my charge – the veterinary surgeon has had to be summoned, at inordinate expense. Now get to blazes, irksome harridan, before I have you arrested for trespass!”

The groom holding the terrified animal’s leading rein fast around a post – a personage who had surely made his former living as a prize-fighter – flashed her a taunting grin as the odious little man again lashed out at the twitching, foaming hide.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! I expect she isn’t fully in season, you ignoramus.” But he ignored her and the outrage continued unchecked. She must try one more time!

“Oh, please, what will it take to make you listen to reason?”

“D--- you for a foul pest!” ejaculated the stud farmer, pausing again with obvious annoyance.

Gathering all his resources, the infernal torturer waved a dismissive arm at her, addressing his groom in isolation. “Garden, remove this blasted, empty-headed old maid at once.” The groom keenly began to make fast the leather in order to free himself to comply, but his master appeared rapidly to have second thoughts.

“Tarry!” He pivoted back to Mrs Barratt, an infernal grin playing about his pointed features.

“MISS – oh! I suppose you do have some kind of godforsaken name?”

“Good heavens! You gradually approach civility! My name, ‘Sir’,” she drew herself up to her full height, “is _Mrs_  Barratt.”

He gave a loud scoff. “And where, pray, is _Mr_ Barratt? He should be keeping his yapping bitch under better control, not letting her roam the countryside, poking her nose into everyone’s business but her own!”

For the first time, Sarah felt a body blow.

“You wish to discuss my husband, do you? _Sergeant_ Barratt gave his up life in the service of King and country!” Her righteous tones began to fail her a little, as she bethought herself of the brave and kindly soldier who had had to absent himself from the marriage bed after such a brief time, leaving her with child – a son he was not spared to see, and whom the Lord had gathered in his mercy these three years since. Scarlet fever had raged like a starving wolf through the village that winter and she had by no means been the only mother bereft.

These private reflections spurred Sarah’s courage. She practically yelled at the cowardly stranger, “And _you_ are unfit to speak his name!”

“A widow, eh? That explains it. Nothing to do but prance around, preaching to all and sundry.”

“I am no preacher but a poor, honest seamstress – one who dares to be a Daniel, as the Good Book exhorts.”

“Ah, the ‘good book’. The ‘good news’ about the ‘saviour’. I’ve read it, thank you; found it most unlikely. Those parsons must laugh at us for fools while they are counting over our gold. Who amongst _them_ would step forth to take another’s punishment, I ask you?” His voice backed from rage to bitterness. “And your ‘merciful God’ is nothing of the sort.” Again, the choler rose in him. “Therefore, I shall simply ignore you as the liar and simpleton you be. You may leave – or stay, if you wish to study the correct management of uppity females.” Alarmed, the mare resumed rolling her eyes as he turned…

There was only one thing for it. Sarah rushed forward and hung on the man’s whip arm: in her haste, dislodging and losing her bonnet. Gentle reader, I hesitate to transcribe the foul language evinced by this brave action. Mrs Barratt desperately hoped that the child whom she had earlier observed to be a part of this man’s household was never witness to such outbursts of incontinence in the home. And she deeply pitied his wife.

Not to be outwitted, the farmer swiftly pinioned the lady, which shock forced her to drop her Bible into the dirty straw. “Garden! Remove the mare to the paddock and take her fresh water. I shall _persuade_ her again later. Leave us, man!” The groom had hesitated for a second, but now hastily obeyed his orders, looking back briefly at the struggling lady.

“What mean you by this fresh outrage, sir?”

Sarah felt for the first time that she might have made a misjudgement. Her opponent was stronger than his short stature had suggested and now there were no witnesses to her predicament. In addition, the firmness of his enforced embrace was somewhat confusing her sensibilities. He held his despicable mouth close to her ear.

“I am a sporting man, Mrs Barratt, who will keep his word, despite the opinion you may hastily have formed of me. I accordingly propose you a fair bargain. You like this ‘saviour’ fairy tale very well, do you not?” he indicated with a furious kick the Holy Bible lying sadly open upon the foetid cobbles.

She did not answer at first, unsure she wished to confront the possibility that she understood perfectly his baleful meaning.

“Well?” he barked, “Do you wish to champion the mare or do you not? Choose!”

“You mean –?”

His face was most improperly close to her soft, pulsating neck; all at once, he seemed desperate to keep her near him, not just at his mercy.

“I shall speak plain. Allow me to beat you and I shall not beat the mare.”

Sarah gasped. It was as she had feared. “I must insist that you shall do neither!”

“Oh, I will do precisely as I please. And if you attempt to interfere, I shall see to it that you are turned out of your modest habitation to try your _‘honest sewing’_ trade on the streets instead. Oh yes; I have taken the trouble to study my tenant list, Mrs Barratt. I know how meagre is an army pension. And I hear from the tradesmen in this village that you are living on credit.”

Sarah fumed at the besmirchment of her character, although she was more immediately alarmed by the threat which he had made – one that could ultimately lead to her finding herself, in plain fact, cast down to that low station at which he had unjustly gauged her. “You cannot… you would not, surely?”

“I assure you, madam, that I both can and will, if provoked. The cottage is mine outright. Perhaps I may prevail upon the judgement of the victualler to cease providing fodder to a bad risk such as you. He will naturally wish to retain my more valuable custom. And I shall continue to act exactly as I please on my own property.”

The cad had evidently lost no time in making his scheming enquiries. And he had had the cheek to accuse _her_ of poking her nose into others’ business! The risk to her security was too real to discount. Sarah thought fast. What power remained to her?

“I will accept, upon two conditions.”

A momentary tremor assailed her captor. In this one sentence, she had doubly surpassed his expectations.

“One, that you use some more delicate instrument, more appropriate to a lady.”

“God’s blood! We shall discern your ‘delicacy’, presently. Yet even I have no wish to commit murder – that would be a sad waste of such spirited flesh.” In securement of this contract, the blackguard spat vilely upon the ground. “Agreed.” With a nod, he indicated the tack room, through whose open door Sarah could see several whips and riding crops. “We choose a lighter weapon in one minute. Make haste, challenger; what is your other demand?”

“That, upon completion of my substitution for said mare, you henceforth cease and desist from beating any and all other living creatures under your charge.” Sarah glanced towards the distant house. Not many windows faced in this direction. Her heart beat loudly as she awaited his reply, hoping that it was plain that she had been including its occupants, particularly the small figure in white.

Might any soul yet chance along the lane and intervene to save her from her own, rash offer? Troubled, she found herself continuing to be _undesirous_ of the sudden appearance of Mr Brooke – or, indeed, anyone.

“Do not look for the groom, girl” hissed her captor. “He knows better than to return within the present hour if he values his position. You do sincerely agree to undergo the mare’s punishment at my hands?”

With difficulty, she twisted to look him in the eye. “I do. I would swear on my Bible – if I thought that such a detail would impress a person of your low kind.” She had long ceased struggling so hard. If submission were to be her fate, she would face it like an Englishwoman. Mrs Barratt only hoped that the heathen farmer would keep his side of the bargain, else all would be in vain.

“Then we are in agreement.” He removed his arms from her body, keeping withal a firm grip upon one arm, and dragged her into the tack room, where, after a swift, insulting visual assessment of her corporeal points, he selected a modestly large riding crop. After a moment’s thought, he also retrieved his jacket from its perch. Mrs Barratt was discomfited to find her hair becoming disarranged by the continual jinking about; in fact, it was now most scandalously and fully descended to public view. “Owch! I assure you that there is no need to manhandle me, sir. I am a woman of my word!”

The seething farmer made no reply but led her out of the tack room and across the yard until they reached an out-of-the-way archway having an antic keystone on which was carved the enigmatic word, ‘EPONA’.  Passing beneath, they entered a stall that was empty but for several bales of straw. Rudely pushing her fully inside, Sarah’s jailer made haste to close and bar both doors, preparatory to confronting his prey in the gloom. The intimate space smelled of horse sweat and over-damp straw; and the man’s body presented itself not dissimilarly to her nostrils.

“Well, well. Here we are in the very mare’s stall, Mrs Barratt. Still as bold?” Baring his teeth, he tapped the crop against his hand in mocking challenge.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” returned she, quickly raising her eyes from the ill-advised level to which they had for some odd reason strayed. The base nature of the man’s excitement was frankly and terrifyingly discernible to a lady who had formerly enjoyed the married estate.

He chose to misunderstand her intended jibe at his departure from etiquette, obnoxiously raising her lower jaw with the crop. “Ha! _That_ is entirely as you wished, nay, _pleaded_ , is it not?”

Irked, Sarah struck the crop away with her gloved hand. She was annoyed with herself at permitting him such a shaming misinterpretation. “I simply mean that you have taken my _name_ in vain many times during our short and disgusting acquaintance, but never deigned to offer me yours.”

He pretended no discomfiture at this, rather offering her still more insults. “Oh? I had thought you already knew it; you seem to _know_ everything else! Come; take up the mare’s position and I will remember my manners for you, mayhap.” So saying, the triumphant cur forced Sarah into a prone arrangement, supported amidships by a bale of straw upon which he first laid his jacket in a gesture that aped true gallantry. Inhaling his stink from the garment, she received the erstwhile wearer’s grudging reply. “As you may e’en now be reading upon the tailor’s label under your long nose, the name’s Oddie – William Oddie. Satisfied? Now hold your tongue, Barratt. The bugle has sounded. It is time to see what you are really made of.”

Settling into a braced position against the awaited onslaught, the lady offered up a silent prayer for courage. When would he begin? The sooner the commencement, the sooner the conclusion.

But his next move was unexpected. Obscenely, all of her skirts were casually raised and placed over her back. Sarah was well aware that precisely nothing now covered her betwixt waist and garter.

“Stop! Oh, for shame!”

In an exasperated tone, he disarmed her. “Does a mare wear petticoats, you stupid woman? No, I think she does not. Neither then shall you, in taking her place.”

Unable to think of a crushing reply, Sarah returned to her silent prayers. And they were indeed necessary. She had not believed that one man could contain so much anger. As he let his blows fly, her rump became that of one of his poor beasts, receiving mark after stinging mark from the riding crop. Her shoulders began to shake and the tears become audible, as much as she opposed them.

“Do you wish to yield, Barratt? I am merely halfway. Will you now forfeit the wager?”

“No, by heaven!” She thought determinedly of the mare. Mere tears would not turn her from her avowed path.

“Oh? I admire your _holy_ spirit! In that case, here is some extra holy _fire_ for madam martyr!”

Sarah wailed as the crop bit sore flesh anew, there being no other unassailed spot upon her backside.

 

Eventually, gasping, the farmer laid aside the weapon. The resilient widow offered up inward thanks to Jesus for her stamina – and that the brute had at least not elected to strike her anywhere other than on her well-defended situpon. Still conscious, although feeling a little dizzy, she managed to speak out.

“May I arise? I take it I have now completed your challenge, Squire Oddie.”

“One moment… You have indeed shewn mettle…so far.” She is not even sure it is the farmer’s voice; it is so changed. Is she dreaming, or is a hesitant hand lightly yet pointlessly raising her dishevelled stocking back into place? She should protest; attempt to shut up like a trap – do something! But Sarah is betrayed in her intentions by a sudden, overwhelming yearning for not only her lost child – was it the pain, which has brought vividly to mind that of childbirth? – but also for her late husband. She commences bodily to sob with that unassuaged bereavement which is a hundred times more painful than mere bruises.

The tentative hand, now uncannily so kind and familiar to her inner thigh, alights more decidedly – and slips and slides smoothly upward into its fondly-remembered natural harbour. Sarah draws in breath sharply as the other soul sighs deeply at the pleasure she is giving him – involuntarily or otherwise. Presently withdrawing, he coolly smears some of her own liberal emissions across her stinging skin.

“Are not females cunningly made? They produce even their own unguents,” observed Mr O, absently, from his devotional position beside her.

Mrs Barratt flushed at the suspicion that she was being both admired and mocked simultaneously. This was surely outwith their pact. Her sobbing had been fleeting withal; she marshalled her voice.

“Sir…you said I had done well, ‘so far’. I pray you explain your cryptic answer!” She was, disgracefully, starting to hope that she correctly discerned the passionate man’s meaning from his renewed intimate caresses, contrasting so intriguingly with his earlier despite. His unopposed fingers had surprisingly rapidly inched their way forward to that location at which they were the least unwelcome of all – a blessed touchstone which she had thought remained her own, personal secret now that there remained no husband to share it with. She caught herself curling with sinful pleasure into the deep, black wool of the riding coat. Was Satan was transforming her into a cat?

Still one, last hope lay between her and damnation. Of course! ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’ “Sir, please consider!” she managed to utter in somewhat strained tones. “What would your _wife_ say if she were to learn of your conduct?”

“That eventually is unlikely to arise,” replied he, drily, continuing his precise and effective torture. “Considering she is dead.”

“Oh. Forgive me.”

“With pleasure, but I shall never forgive whatever ‘higher power’ saw fit to allow my wife to die painfully in childbed, leaving only a useless, short-lived daughter.” Sarah bit her tongue at the casual slight to her sex, and listened patiently. He continued with some passion, his voice cracking. “A fine, brave, loving woman…such as perhaps I did not deserve.” His hand is stilled. He withdraws it and gets to his feet. Is he at last ashamed?

Apparently not. Sarah hears the distinct sound of buttons being unfastened. “For the final time, sir; may I arise and go?”

Comes a more stout-hearted reply: “No, you may not – I have not finished. There is yet owed to you the second part of the mare’s due. Never fear! Complete this final test and you may rely on me to be true.” So saying, he assumes the role of stallion without delay. Sarah swoons as she finds herself bodily reunited with her departed love. Maybe Oddie is right, and the heaven in the sky is a mere twister’s tale – is not this earthly heaven of more value to them both, to all mankind, nay – to creation entire? Here is a frank, new way to worship. Together they will refine it and attain eventual peace through harmony. Reaching repeatedly into her now, the widower cries out in desperation, “Jenny, little lost bird! Forgive me! Come back! Oh, come back…” With a searching crescendo that touches the mare’s wise heart, a tender foal is called into being.

 

Sarah twisted and looked at the spent man collapsed beside her. Coming fully to life, she took charge of the hated riding crop and broke it, clear in his view, firmly in twain over her victorious knee. Trustingly, the wondering manchild clasped his betrothed’s freely-offered hand as she tenderly embraced his weakened shoulders. In truth, her bold choice had been made long before this moment. A light, life-giving rain began to patter over the stables, the neglected house; the empty lawns.

Came the spirited sound of a wren’s song without, as Sarah Rhiannon Barratt sang an ancient lay to the youth within. “Dry your tears, Master Will. All shall be well.”

**Author's Note:**

> The only story so far written completely 'out of time' compared with the real Bill. Bit of a Blackadder vibe about that, eh? It was the marvellous horsey-villainous dialogue written by Garden/Oddie which made me set this several centuries ago. Graeme's kind of in this too, but only a walk-on (and off). And sorry to malign poor Tim, but it was so neat he should fit in somehow. The paganistic ending is, I feel, very fitting for something inspired by the 1970s - there sure was a lot of that about; I remember.


End file.
